The Funeral
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Today, I'm going to upload a few OLD fics from my LJ page. Not my faves, but worth posting, I suppose. In this post-Bombshells fic, House's mom dies.


"Did you hear about House?" Wilson asked, looking concerned.

Cuddy looked up, groaned a bit. It had been a long day, she had a headache. The last thing she needed was more tales of House pulling pranks to make her life miserable.

"Let me guess. . .He put a stinkbomb in the nurse's lounge. Oh no wait. . .he's going on a hunger strike until we put Jelly Bellies in the hospital vending machines."

"His mom died."

Cuddy's face went white.

"Oh my God. When?"

"Yesterday. Massive stroke."

"Poor House. He must be devastated."

"If by devastated you mean, being a bigger jerk than usual and acting like it doesn't bother him at all, then yes, he's devastated."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"He's going to crash, Wilson. It's going to be bad. You need to be there when he falls."

"I know. . . which is why I'm here," Wilson said. "I need a favor. I need you to look after him for me."

"Me?" Cuddy shook her head. "Ohhhh no. You're his best friend. I'm his sworn mortal enemy. I'm literally the last person on earth he wants to see right now."

"I know. And I realize the timing couldn't be worse, but I have to leave tonight for that Compassionate Oncology conference in D.C."

Cuddy looked at him incredulously.

"You've got to be kidding," she said.

"My plan is, I'm going to attend the conference and then meet House at the funeral on Friday," he said. "Meanwhile, I need you to hover around him—with a safety net."

"Jesus Wilson, can't you just blow off the conference?"

"I can't. I'm the keynote speaker."

Cuddy put her head in her hands.

"Okay, I'll do it. But I might actually make things worse."

"I'm not even sure that's possible at this point."

######

After Wilson left, she went upstairs to House's office to express her condolences.

They hadn't had a single civil conversation since the breakup three months ago. Mostly he had been inventing new and imaginative ways to make her life hell.

He was sitting at his desk, in the dark, his head bowed.

"I just heard," she said.

"I'm fine," he said tersely, anticipating her next question.

She took a step toward him, put her hand on his.

"House, I'm so sorry."

He yanked his hand away.

"I said I was fine."

She backed off, looked at him. He looked like he wanted to crawl under a rock and disappear.

"You don't need to be here, House," she said gently. "Why don't you just go home?"

"I have a case."

"I'm sure your team can handle it. I doubt you'll be of much use to them anyway."

"Are you telling me I _have_ to go home?" he snapped.

"No, of course not," she said. "It's up to you. I just thought you might need a little time, to process. . . To grieve, House. Your mother just died."

"I'm staying," he said.

"Okay. Fine. . ." She looked at him sincerely. "House, if there's anything I can do."

"You? What could I possibly want from you?" he spat.

"I don't know. Anything. If you need to talk, a shoulder to cry on, a friend. You can call me, 24/7."

He snorted derisively.

"Saint Cuddy," he said, standing up. "How _would _the world continue to rotate on its axis if you weren't here? Now if you excuse me, I have a patient to cure."

He brushed past her into the hallway and limped off.

#####

She was stubborn. Almost as stubborn as he was.

So that night, she went by his apartment.

He came to the door looking like shit, wearing a stained white tee-shirt and a ratty robe. His breath stunk of alcohol.

"Jesus, just leave me alone, Cuddy," he said.

"That's the thing, House. I don't think you should be left alone."

"Too late," he said, looking at her pointedly.

Cuddy ignored him.

"Just let me sit with you," she said. "We don't even have to talk. We can just watch TV. Or listen to music. Or. . . play Sodoku."

"What? You think you're some great comfort to me, Cuddy? You think you can soothe my aching heart? It's exactly the opposite."

"House, just let me in. . ." she went to grab his hand.

He lurched away.

"Go home, Cuddy. Go spend time with your daughter. Or was she not penciled into today's schedule?"

Cuddy's mouth dropped open. She felt like she'd been slapped. When she was with House she used to share her guilt about not having enough time for Rachel.

"Just because your mother is dead doesn't give you an excuse to be a bigger asshole than usual," she said.

And left.

######

She was fuming when she left, but by the time she got home, she had calmed down. She knew what he was doing: He was just trying to push her farther away—make his loneliness and misery complete. And she wasn't going to let him get away with it.

So she stopped by his office the next day to check on him. He wasn't there. She went back later—still no sign of him.

She did manage to corner Foreman, though, who said that House, annoyed by what he perceived as the team's hovering and coddling, had called them a bunch of sentimental shit-for-brains, and stormed out. Foreman hadn't seen him since.

That night, she went by his apartment again. When he answered the door, he seemed genuinely stunned to see her.

"Can't you take a hint?" he asked.

"Guess not," she said.

"I don't get you Cuddy," he said finally. "I thought you were done with me."

"Don't be an idiot, House," she said. "It's going to take more than our breakup—and your insults, no matter how surgically precise—to stop me from caring about you."

He looked at the floor.

"I'm sorry I said that about Rachel," he said. "It was a low blow. . . I didn't mean it."

"I know you didn't," she said.

"But I still don't want you here."

She sighed.

She really didn't want to leave House alone with his booze and his demons and his grief, but what else could she do?

Damn Wilson and his damn medical conference.

"Okay," she said. "But the offer still stands. Call me anytime. I'll come right back. Or you can just come over."

He went to shut the door. She grabbed it.

"I know you loved her a lot, House," she said. "And I know she loved you a lot, too."

He blinked. She let go of the door and he slowly closed it.

#####

The funeral was the next day.

She slept fitfully that night. She found herself thinking about the way House had steeled himself with pills to cope with her surgery. In his own fumbling, inept way, he had wanted to be there for her—just like she wanted to be there for him. Why wouldn't he let her?

She closed her eyes. Tried to sleep.

At about 2 am, there was an erratic banging on her front door.

She got up, looked through the peep hole.

It was House.

He staggered in. He was wearing that same white stained tee-shirt as earlier, plus pajama bottoms, a wool overcoat and unlaced sneakers. He was drunk again, but she wasn't about to castigate him for drinking and driving. His mother just died. Plus, he had come. To her.

"I can't do this, Cuddy," he slurred.

She wasn't entirely sure what he meant. The funeral? Their breakup? Life?

"Yes, you can," she said.

"I can't. I don't know how to do it. I don't."

"You'll get through this," she said.

"But I'm alone," he said. He took a step toward her, almost tripped over his cane.

"You're not alone, House," she said. She grabbed his arms, to steady him.

"I don't want her to be dead, Cuddy," he said pitifully. He sounded like a child who couldn't grasp the finality of death.

"I know you don't, House. I know you don't."

She went to hug him and this time, he allowed himself to be held. But he was drunk and needy and misread her concern.

He found her mouth, started to kiss her. For a second, she let him, then she put her hands on his chest, gently pushed him away.

"I'm here for you, House, but not like that."

He glared at her.

"Fine. I'll go," he said huffily. He started to limp toward the door.

She grabbed his arm again.

"Look House, this is how it's going to go," she said firmly. "You're going to spend the night here in the guest bedroom and then tomorrow we're going to go back to your place and I'm going to help you get dressed and then I'm driving you to the funeral. I won't take no for an answer. Okay?"

His hand was still poised on the door knob.

"Okay," he said softly.

"Good."

"What about Rachel?" he asked.

"You don't worry about her. Just try to get some rest."

######

They drove silently in the car together. He had barely said a word since last night.

At his apartment, she had laid out his suit and tie on the bed and watched him as he obediently put on everything she had picked out for him. She made him coffee, which he drank, and toast, which he left untouched.

She called her assistant and told him to cancel the next two days. Julia was watching Rachel.

House stared out the window. It was a 5 hour drive to Virginia.

"You know, she wanted to come live near me in Princeton," he said finally.

"What?" Cuddy said.

"Yeah, after my father died. She thought it would be nice to be close to me."

"What happened?"

"I talked her out of it," House said. "I told her that she'd miss her friends, her bridge club, the church."

"Well, you were probably right," Cuddy said.

"If she'd lived here I might've. . .I might've been able to save her," he said.

Of course.

"House, no one could've saved her. The stroke killed her instantly. You of all people should know that."

"I might've noticed something. Something almost imperceptible. Something no one else could see."

"House, don't do this to yourself."

"It's true. You know it's true."

"No, I don't. Not even you can cheat death House. It was her time."

"Well, at least I could've been with her. Been nice to her, you know? You said it yourself: She had an asshole for a son and an asshole for a husband," he said. "What a miserable life."

"Stop it, House," Cuddy said. "You were a good son. You sent her a card on her birthday. You called her on holidays. And you were . . sweet to her on the phone. I always took note of it because it was so wildly out of character for you."

She was trying to make him laugh.

He didn't quite laugh, but gave a half smile, rested his head against the window.

"Thanks for driving me, Cuddy," he said.

And neither of them spoke again until they got to Virginia.

#####

At the funeral, he sat flanked between Wilson and Cuddy.

At one point, when the priest was giving the eulogy, he took Cuddy's hand. And when the priest began reciting the Psalms—meaningless to him as an atheist, but perhaps the words about relief from suffering had some resonance—he squeezed it so tightly, she thought she might lose circulation.

She wasn't sure he was going to be able pull himself together to deliver his own eulogy, but she was wrong.

He limped up to the dais and cleared his throat. He looked at Wilson, then Cuddy, then began talking about his mom. He talked about her love for her bridge club buddies ("although she always said Selma was a cheat"), her failed attempts to drag him to church ("I'm sure she sees my presence here today as the ultimate victory"), her horrible fruitcake that everyone pretended to like ("even the family dog tried to re-gift it").

He ended the eulogy by saying this: "When I was a little boy, my parents were all extreme contrasts to me. He was hard, she was soft. He was cold, she was warm. He was darkness, she was light. But whenever I got mad at him and wanted to run away from home—which, during my adolescence, was daily, sometimes hourly—I would look at her and think, 'She loves him, so he can't be all that bad.'"

House looked up at the congregation.

"We're all better people for having been loved by Blythe House. I will miss that light in my life. Thank you."

Cuddy swallowed the lump in her throat, looked down at her feet, and smiled.

#####

As House stood in the procession line, numbly accepting condolences, Wilson pulled Cuddy aside.

"It was a surprise to see you here," he said. "A pleasant one. But a surprise nonetheless."

"Yeah, House was so depressed he forgot that he hates me," she cracked.

"_Riiiight_. Hate. Yes, that's exactly how House feels about you."

She said nothing.

Wilson gestured toward the dais.

"He did good, huh?"

"He did," Cuddy said. "I guess he's full of surprises."

"He is. You both are."

Cuddy wasn't quite sure what he meant by that.

"You staying overnight?" he asked.

"Yeah, well. . .I drove him," Cuddy shrugged.

"I could drive him home, if you like."

"It's okay," Cuddy said. "I don't mind."

"And you're staying in the hotel? Let me guess. Same room?"

"I want to keep my eye on him," she said defensively. "Same room. Two beds."

"Of course," he said.

#####

Maybe Wilson knew something she didn't.

Because Cuddy couldn't sleep. She watched House's back in the dark. She could tell by the way he was breathing that he was awake, too.

Finally, she quietly got out of her bed and climbed into his.

She wrapped her arms around him from behind. He stayed very still—almost like he didn't want to break the spell.

Then she kissed the back of his neck.

She wasn't sure what she was doing. Why she had this constant, almost compulsive need to be close to him, to ease his pain. She just knew that she couldn't help herself.

He turned to face her. Kissed her on the mouth. This time she kissed back.

They made love wordlessly and gently, as if each afraid the other might break.

Then they fell asleep.


End file.
